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And then there was Dominic, lying so still beneath the bedcovers. Just knowing that he was fighting for his life, not simply sleeping, filled Artemis with stone-cold dread.
Horatia, who was sitting by her brother’s side holding his limp hand, rose as Artemis approached.
“Thank you for sending for me,” Artemis murmured.
Horatia gave a weak smile. “Of course, my dear. I hope you can forgive me for not sending for you sooner, but while the physician, Dr. Hamilton, was working on Dominic’s shoulder, I thought both Edward”—she nodded toward Lord Northam—“and I should be present.”
“Of course,” said Artemis. “I understand.”
Her gaze strayed to Dominic. The covers hadn’t been pulled all the way up to his chin, so she could see that he was bare-chested save for the white linen bandage wrapped around his left shoulder. There was another bandage wrapped about his forehead. In stark contrast to the dark stubble on his jaw, his complexion was an unnatural chalky white, and his lips were as bloodless as a marble statue’s.
Artemis drew a shaky breath, willing herself not to cry. “How…how is he?”
Dr. Hamilton, who’d just shrugged on his coat, stepped forward. “While the bullet has been removed and the wound cleaned with a weak solution of chlorinated lime—it’s a relatively experimental treatment I’ve been employing to help stave off infection—I’m afraid His Grace did lose quite a lot of blood before I stitched him up, Miss…”
“Jones,” supplied Horatia. “Miss Artemis Jones is my brother’s fiancée.”
“Ah…Miss Jones.” The doctor nodded. “I will add, if it hadn’t been so cold last night, things might have been far worse. His Grace probably would have lost even more blood. But my main concern at this stage is that His Grace hasn’t regained consciousness. I’ve bandaged the gash on his forehead, but I suspect the blow he sustained to his head was quite significant.
“I’m afraid there’s little else we can do at this stage but wait for him to rouse. In the meantime, watch over him for any changes in his condition—send word immediately if he deteriorates or becomes feverish—and periodically check his wound and keep it and the dressing clean. I’ve left a bottle of chloride of lime on the washstand for you to use. You’ll know His Grace is beginning to improve if he reacts to the cleaning solution when you apply it.” The doctor grimaced. “It smarts like the very devil.”
After Dr. Hamilton had collected his leather physician’s bag and taken his leave, Horatia gestured toward the armchair at Dominic’s bedside. “You take it, Artemis,” she said. “As much as I’m loath to do it, I need to send word to Celeste and tell her what’s happened. Edward will catch the nine o’clock train to Newton to fetch her.” A worried frown knit her brow as her gaze drifted to her brother. “I think it’s best.”
Artemis agreed. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how Celeste would react to the news. “Please, let me know if I can help in any way.”
Horatia gave her a wan smile. “I will. But for now, stay with Dominic. He needs you.”
The Northams and the rest of the servants quit the room, and within moments, Artemis was left all alone with her fiancé.
Her vision misted with tears as she approached the bed on unsteady legs and then sank into the armchair. Dominic didn’t stir at all when she took his large hand and threaded her fingers through his.
Entwined them.
“Oh, Dominic, my love,” she murmured, caressing his bandaged brow, gently brushing a lock of his thick black hair away from his eyes. “Who did this to you?”
But Artemis knew. Knew to her very bones that it was Gascoyne. After she’d quit Dartmoor House last night, Dominic must have gone searching for him to confront him about what he’d done to poor Phoebe. It was the sort of thing an honorable, good-hearted man like him would do.
Retaliating—lashing out in the worst possible way—seemed exactly like something Gascoyne would do too.
Of course, she could be wrong. Perhaps Dominic had simply gone to one of his clubs in St. James’s and had been set upon by an opportunistic footpad on the way home. But as far as Artemis knew, St. James’s really wasn’t the sort of area where footpads roamed, looking to attack gentlemen who were high in the instep.
And footpads didn’t usually shoot their marks, did they? She suspected they’d be more likely to pick a toff’s pocket or use a snatch-and-grab tactic rather than employ excessive violence in the pursuit of a handful of guineas or a watch. Why draw attention to oneself by discharging a pistol shot?
Itmusthave been Gascoyne. As far as Artemis knew, no one else held such an intense grudge against Dominic. She trusted that Scotland Yard would do a thorough job investigating who was behind this despicable attack. It wasn’t every day that someone attempted to murder a nobleman of such high rank.
“Whoever hurt you, I will make sure they are brought to justice,” whispered Artemis. She pressed her cheek to Dominic’s hand where it lay motionless upon the counterpane. “Please don’t die. I couldn’t bear it if—” She bit her lip to stem a tide of weeping that threatened to breach the brittle wall of stoicism she’d erected around her heart. She wouldn’t give into despair.
Dominic was strong and vital, both in body and spirit. He would pull though this.
He had to because she loved him.
I love him…
The long overdue acknowledgment of how she really felt about this wonderful man should bring her joy. But it didn’t. Not in this moment. The bittersweetness of her realization threatened to cleave her heart in two.
She loved Dominic, but he might die.
She loved him, but if he survived and she did decide to marry him—right now in this moment she longed to do so—she’d have to be honest with him about her writing career. But then she might lose him if he couldn’t accept her for who she truly was.
